


Breathe Easy

by Fremasns



Category: Space Station 13 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Nausea, Original Character(s), Prison, Science Fiction, but mild sci fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fremasns/pseuds/Fremasns
Summary: Is prison on a decrepit space station nice?





	Breathe Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this mostly as practice, but I think it's good enough to publish
> 
> SS13 is an interesting beast. Lots of opportunities for fanfics.
> 
> Loosely based on a round I had once.

Scott Andrews was in a predicament. After being arrested by Nanotrasen officials for revealing a massive embezzling ring _which just so happened_ to be orchestrated by the vice president’s son, he was shipped off to a Delta-class station, notorious for their terrible prison wings. They were cramped, old, filled with pests, and the vendor food was terrible. Scrounging around, he discovered two fridges filled with stuff, which he quickly laid into a pile. Early in the shift, the Head of Security stopped by to tell him that the only members of security were him and one other officer. Not that officers were usually in the mood to play cards with prisoners, but they occasionally stopped by. It was… strangely nice, knowing that someone cared enough about you to not let you rot. Though, they mostly stopped by to see that nothing was going wrong. The possibility of something going wrong. That could be promising. Remembering a newscaster story he heard a while ago about four prisoners who escaped from a Meta-class, they made a spear to break a window leading to space. One of them got badly fucked up by the grille, but they all escaped alive. But, to be in the depths of space without a suit, let alone without a proper oxygen tank? Untenable. He discarded the thought, as he began to feel a wave of hunger come on. He went over to the ingredients pile to see what there was. Taking account there were a lot of vegetables, a bag of sugar, and some flour, enough to make dough for bread. Perfect. Pulling out some glasses for the mix and placing one on the kitchen’s table, before turning on the sink, and placing the glass under the tap. The texture of the mixture was… oh, no. Oh, God.

* * *

“ _What’re you making?” Scott asked, looking over his cellmate. He was holding a clear garbage bag filled with some liquid. It was beige-yellow like long expired milk, viscous, and… chunky? His cellmate smiled. “Pruno,” he said, pouring it into a long-forgotten pitcher that belonged to a former resident. “Try some.” Scott blinked. This would clearly be the worst thing he’s ever tried. But, who was he to refuse such an offer? “S-sure. I can take it.” He could barely get the words out. His digestive system was practically screaming at him to stop. His mind had other plans. “Good,” his cellmate responded, a sly grin on his face. “Good to hear not everyone in here is a pussy…” Fuck. He couldn’t back out now. He had his reputation at stake. Even if it was here. As Scott held the pitcher in his hands, he released how much he’d fucked up. This was vomit, or worse. This was all a sick joke. He could hear the other prisoners jeer at him already… Yet, there remained a strange curiosity, a desire in him. What if it was pretty good? Raising it to his mouth, he smelled something between a decaying corpse and rotten grapes. This was a mistake. Opening his mouth slowly and wearily, he readied himself for whatever was to come. He was better than this. He wasn’t going to drink something brewed in a toilet._

_Wouldn’t he?_

_Scott takes a small sip, and is immediately overcome by intense nausea. Unknowingly, he drops the pitcher, landing with a hard crash on the ground, spilling the contents in front of him. His cellmate screams something incoherently, but he’s too fucked up to notice. “Fffff-uck. I’m-” he begins to start with an apology, before collapsing in complete agony. His stomach was on fire. His liver was already beginning to ache with the tell-tale signs of drunkenness. “H-help me… P-please...” he begged his cellmate. He was not awake for the reply. From a young age, he was known for not being able to handle alcohol._

Nanotrasen had a strength listing for alcohol, which he’d used to carry with him when he was a free man. A shot of beer, 25 strength, he had to lie down for the rest of the day. A shot of wine, 35 strength, he was badly ill.

He would later learn Pruno had a strength of 85.

* * *

A central command announcement snapped him out of his trance. It was about a cruise missile crashing into the station near the bridge. _Serves them right,_ he thought, anger forming, clouding around him. _It’s because of them I’m in this dump. I should be calling the goddamn shots._ Giving a grunt of dismay, he placed the dough into the microwave. Working his shoe into the floor, he anxiously waited for the microwave to automatically open, secretly hoping that somehow, the flawless NT programmed device would break, giving him an excuse to trash this dump. Unsurprisingly, the bread came out perfect. Slicing it into uneven pieces with a nearby plastic knife before scarfing them down, he needed another thing to do to pass the time. Glancing around the prison wing, he weighed his options:

Working out. Too strenuous.

Playing with the three mice around the wing. No.

Botany. Too much effort.

Gaming on a nearby arcade cabinet. That, he could get into.

* * *

It had been 20 minutes, and Scott’s collection of prizes were ever-growing. He had gotten really good at the game he chose, The Orion Trail. A simple text adventure/management thing. He’d gotten really good at his strategy: Kill two party members at the start, avoid black holes, raid spaceports. The party member thing was almost an exploit, it allowed for a lack of changeling attacks, with room for sudden deaths from illness and whatnot. Black holes were pure RNG if you didn’t avoid them, but they drained fuel. Fuel that was in no short supply. Spaceport raiding was also RNG, but to a lesser extent. Worked every four out of five times.

Scott was starting to grow restless. He couldn’t play this forever. He needed change. Remembering his integrated commlink linked directly to a network of NT interns, he sent a simple message: “I’m getting really bored.”

After a minute, a reply came: “Would you like to play the most dangerous game?” Scott blinked. This was obviously just hyperbole. “Of course.” Another two minutes.

Another reply: “Be careful, this could possibly kill you.” Scott snorted. This was a blatant lie. You couldn’t die from playing a game.

Right?

* * *

After a few long minutes, the game arrived. It was exactly the same as The Orion Trail’s, but bore the words “realism edition” at the end. Scott thought nothing of it, turning the game on. It was standard Orion Trail. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Using his standard strategy, he won easily enough, and held out his hand for a prize. It was a model ship, looked like ones he's seen in museums. Old, really old. This one had a strange red glow to it. Pushing a button on the top, it started spouting dialogue from a tinny speaker. Something about docking in a port. Suddenly, the dialogue turned loud, as one of the characters said something about an explosion. Sensing imminent danger, Scott threw it at one of the walls adjacent to security, before ducking into a cell.

Seemingly instantaneously, he was rendered deaf from the sound of something, and was hurled towards a wall. He could already tell he had fucked up, but he had to check how much he had. The prison wing was a crater. There was a massive hullbreach where the toy had exploded, and he quickly put on his oxygen mask and tank. Investigating further, the hullbreach extended into some reinforced section of wall, leading directly to security. If he could just sneak in, he could ride a disposals shute out. That plan was halted when he came face to face with the Head of Security. His face was a mixture of confusion, anger, and surprise. Behind the HoS were 6 security officers. One had a shotgun, the rest had disablers and flashes. Scott smiled. This could get interesting...

**Author's Note:**

> Bolivian Army ending, hell yeah!


End file.
